He’d three lines and a gleaming neck,

stunk of Imperial Leather.

I was gagged and tidemarked,

the Mother of the Messiah.

Under strict instruction

I smiled beatifically

with muted mouth, and purple feet,

in Bethlehem, in Primary.

Virgin Mary, Mother of God.

Silenced, made to breed.

But Joseph (famous cuckold)

was worth three lines of speech.

K...

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Clog clog clogging up, dominant scrawling,

tongues foreshortened every morning;

careless fingers play with qwerty,

shirking beauty, empty

endless asphalt roads to                                                         

wag wag wagging tales of water;

heartsink warning, minds in mourning,

words unversed in seventeen lines;

crumbled poesy, boundless

flimsy strin...

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Liam Fox fixes roofs by hitting old folks hard,

hammering the benefits that keep them warm and dry.

Alex Wild thinks they won’t recall who cut their fuel,

and even if they did, well he’s expecting them to die

so it doesn’t matter anyway, does it Alex Wild,

to freeze out folk who pay your wages, keep your nazi arse

in a Tax Alliance think tank making money from the old?

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This poem has now been published on Militant Thistles, link here:

http://militantthistles.moonfruit.com/laura-taylor-poems/4590748044

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Happy to say that this poem has been published in the anthology entitled 'Over Land, Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge'.

The book has been produced in the East Midlands by an editorial committee, typesetter and publisher working free of charge, and the initial print costs were covered by a crowdfunding campaign. All proceeds from sales of the book will be shared between the charities: Mé...

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I remember eyeshine, smear,

transparency and flow;

sunshine flooding corners, floors

and walls awash with haze.

I remember fractal lattice, mimicking

a frosty imprint; winter strings

of spider-ladders swaying

in the breeze.

You remember nothing.

I remember cills of jungle, chewing gum

in silent gazing,          

fingering a smiley face          ...

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Spring-clean, fresh

dressed in flannelette

and floral,

the Snow Queen pales

against her pillow.

Limb-tidy, quiet

in a final contemplation,

seeing neither near nor far

though knowing earth beneath a primal sky

will be the regal destination.

The King rests            

                              gathers strength

                                   ...

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2am came to call.

Storm began to flicker, rise,

raiding every cell of wellness,

strength and hope

of morning light.

Her chest a bellows,

body bidding;

battles raging inwardly,

breaking down defence

on every side.

Shadows cough,

calling Time, spitting

past is present,

though the history is pushed aside,

ignored in a room too small

for the ...

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Precious little phrase on repeat;

incantation soaring out to settle

dusty words of comfort.

Balm poured to keep us warm,

to soak us in a sense

of que sera sera.

The clock’s slow tock

ticking minutes

off the coil.

Vigil kept for breaking breath;                                               

we sit and tell in every tense

stories for release.

...

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Masked and passive,

just the drawing of a breath

across her threshold;

she is home in a cage

for a bed, bars prevent

any spillage or descent.

Her chest become a bellows;

body bidding it

to rise

and fall

and rise again,

summoning the will

to act in total independence

of an opiated mind.

We stand to one side

as the medical procession

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Fully charged                                                                         

phones to bed

and in my ears

Finlandia,

all cello dread

and turbulent.

Fully charged             

phones to bed;

catnaps anticipate

a tempest, or a fanfare?

Something gathers

on the hills.     

                                                               ...

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Here's a 3 minute 'medley' from a recent performance, which gives a nice flavour of my stuff :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5QtcJnR7SI

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Happy to say this has now been published on Militant Thistles, link here:

http://militantthistles.moonfruit.com/laura-taylor-poems/4590748044

(this is a performance poem - TTIP needs to be heard as teetip)

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Hark hark here it comes!

I’ve got a solution for dwindling fuel,

I’m sourcing renewable energy.

I plan to campaign on flatulent change;

promoting emissions,

employing the parp,

exploiting my arse

for the nation.

Hark hark here it comes!

Sustainable bums are humming for heat,

producing renewable energy.

Think of the children and all of their kin.

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The remains of a day                                                              

lie extinguished, discarded,

disregarded by the passers-by.

Silver-tipped echo of a mouth

unremarked upon

and common

in its everyday normality.

Evocatively comforting

in stained familiarity;

an endless capability

for rainbow possibilities

of shining eyes and laughter l...

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